


Fine Dining

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Breeding, Creampie, F/M, I want too many big hornies to do many big edit so i am apoogy, IN MY TUMMIES, Table Sex, Vaginal Sex, WANT HIS CUMMIES, biG CUMMIES, not editted much beecause big horny., vergil biG CUMMEIS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: For a man with a penchant for the finer things in life (an irony in itself when he can't afford them half the time), Vergil's kinks skew towards the simple. The primal.
Relationships: Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 30
Kudos: 245





	Fine Dining

**Author's Note:**

> A nonnie came into my inbox and then I got big horny at work and then I got home and I wrote this in like a hour or something because I was big horny. If y'all follow me on tumblr, y'all know exactly what I'm talking about.

Vergil is normally one for light conversation as a dinner accompaniment. When paired with a cheap, yet surprisingly decadent wine, there is little else that could surpass an evening of gentle banter with good company; the soft clinking of cutlery against fine china; the peculiar way the wine glasses sparkle, seeming almost as if to wink in the light. Both yours and _his_ cooking have gotten better as a result of these increasingly occurring date nights too, even if you're both merely pretending your home is a five star restaurant.

It's cozy, like this. Just the two of you.

And so on any other day, Vergil would _loathe_ the mess. He would frown at the silk table cloth that now half hangs off the table, would pinch at the bridge of his nose at the remainder of the salad that sits trapped beneath the upturned bowl on the floor. And lord, the wine is going to stain the carpet…

But the time for conversation is over. At least for now.

The table creaks, scraping against your floor, and somewhere above your head, you can hear something heavy right on the cusp of tipping over with every forceful thrust of his cock into your little cunt. You don't remember what lead to this moment, can't quite recall over the taste of wine just what Vergil's tipping point was, but you're certain it had something to do with "wanting to be full".

You'd honestly meant the dessert that's waiting in your fridge, but this?

You'll take this.

You'll take _all_ of this.

With your back against your dining table, you reach above you, in front of you, above you, anywhere really, desperately reaching for anything to hold on to while he fucks you, settling for the two halves of his silk shirt that now hang open at your behest. The buttons are on the floor somewhere, probably lost among the greens that litter the floor, though your handiwork on his shirt was no match for the quick work he made of your panties; the final shreds of it, dark blue and lacy, dangle from your ankle, swaying every time he fervently slams back into you.

Your hands skim his torso, feeling tight muscles work underneath his skin, fingertips grazing higher and higher until you brace your palms against his chest. Your breath falls in short gasps, almost hiccups; he's barely even affording you the time to breathe before he fucks that out of you too.

"I've–" gasp, "never–" gasp, "seen– you like this– before."

Above you, looming almost directly over your body, Vergil's steely eyes find yours, but he doesn't respond. They flicker down to your chest, to where your dress sits askew, and where one of your breasts hangs right out of the cup because, like your panties, he'd been too impatient to deal with zips and bras too. He'd barely even pulled his cock out of his pants before he slid right home into your sopping cunt with a shudder and a hiss.

"Just can't– help yourself– can you?" You're smiling, a lewd, toothsome grin as your lover groans at even the sound of your voice, vaguely mocking, even when gasped and out of breath.

Both of his hands slam down at your sides, clutching at the tablecloth until it tears. His shoulders slouch, hunching, head lowering. "...quiet." He rasps.

 _Be quiet_ , he wants to say.

You laugh. "Why– are you close?"

His fingers dig into the table, dragging down and down until they're in line with your hips, where he helps himself to two handfuls of those instead, pulling you onto his thick length to meet him thrust for thrust.

" _Yes_."

Admitting it likely isn't easy for him, but he figures when he has you trapped on top of a table, capable of doing nothing but accepting his cock, he can let it slide this once.

But _you_ can't.

Rising up onto your elbows, you hook one arm around his neck and yank him down for a clumsy kiss, all tongue and shared breath. It's those desperate little gestures he loves the most, and with a throaty groan into your mouth, he goes to pull out to finish on your stomach, to stain yet another dress with discoloured streaks of his cum.

But then you lock your ankles around his back, your legs tightening and squeezing, drawing him forward until he's bottomed out inside you again and he can feel your lips curl into a smile against his.

"Where do you think you're going?" You whisper, voice so low that his cock twitches hard enough inside you for you to feel it against your walls. "Aren't you going to give me my dessert?"

The air in the room begins to bristle, but Vergil doesn't move, merely makes an incomprehensible noise against your lips. But you know, from its cadence and its pitch, that it means "no". So you squeeze your legs tighter around him, your hips rolling slowly, gently, wedging him just a little deeper, just a little further before you pull back to begin the cycle anew; always teasing him with just a bit more of your maddening heat, and your warm slick that's beginning to pool between your bodies.

Fuck, even the _smell_ of you, heady and compelling, claws at his restraint. But he channels that into the bruising grip he has on your hips instead, his fingertips pressing deeply into your soft skin, harder and harder the more your hips move and sway.

"Stop…" With no urgency, no agency, no emphasis, the word is merely spoken; a sound that holds no meaning.

Funny though, that he isn't simply pulling you off his cock.

He's more than strong enough.

What chance would your crossed legs at his back stand?

Instead, he's letting you taunt him, letting the feel of your velvety pussy suck him back into your welcoming heat. It's cheating isn't it? That he only ever pulls you off him enough to let the greedy motion of your hips to fall back upon him like an endless tide, washing that mind numbing friction back over his senses.

"I'm not letting you pull out until you cum inside me."

Fuck, why do you have to say it like that?

"I want every drop."

Wait, when did your hips start to roll faster?

"I want to be leaking you for days."

When did his own hips start to move again?

" _Breed me, Vergil._ "

Your back arches, head lulling back, voice tapering off into a pitched whine when he relents with a hiss of your name. His mouth finds the base of your throat, his teeth pinching at your skin until it blushes a deep pink, and there, he huffs short breaths against you while his cock throbs and pulses streams of cum into you. The heat of it is almost as scalding as it is rapturous, a vivid warmth that you can feel leak from your convulsing cunt. Such a shame it's gone to waste instead of finding its place inside you.

Oh well. There's always next time.


End file.
